A Court of Bastards [ACOTAR]

Chapter 42

Beneath the mountains of Illyria was a lake that once shimmered blue - a wide, flat mirror to the endless expanse of sky above. Now, the rabbits and mountain lions, who had made their home among the rocky slopes encircling the lake, had been chased out by war-torn refugees, packed into white tents that stretched as far as the eye could see. 

They had made a kind of city there, a sprawling linen metropolis with its own lanes and avenues, kitchens and infirmaries and make-shift clothiers. And though the surrounding mountain landscape might have moved them to awe, the last of the Valerians wore pale, puckered expressions as they moved around the camp, faces creased with exhaustion and unfathomable sorrow.

Where once citizens might have slept off a night of dancing, or strolled from their homes to bakeries and coffeehouses, these fae emerged from their tents just before dawn, bent double with stiffness. Fiona was one of them, although she did her best to smile often, even on those mornings when she felt like curling into a ball and crying the daylight away.

Life in the camp was rough, rigid and utilitarian, with no gesture spared for beauty, or craft, or any of those fine things Velaris had championed. Yet despite their loss, there was some sense of relief among the people. Fiona felt it every morning, that surprise when they awoke each day; surprised to find the world still standing, surprised to find their bodies the way they left them. As though their flesh and bone did not reflect their crumbling insides. As though they could not comprehend why they had working limbs, fists and feet, while others were ash on the wind, long since blown across the sea.

Every morning Fiona watched them ponder it as she walked the rousing camp. The kitchens were nearest her tent, so she had taken it upon herself to make their operation a matter of personal concern. As the moon rose she would bake, and when the sun came again, she would retrieve a barrel of porridge or stew, and have it float behind her as she ladled out portions to the rows and rows of hungry, thinning bodies. 

She walked the perimeter of the camp first, her smile fixed like stone as fae, faerie and pixie alike mumbled their thanks with extended hands. Some would look up at her and nod - others would just hang their heads and take the bowl quietly. She did not blame or praise either. These people had been through enough to warrant the death of niceties. 

Along the crudely-constructed guard towers that formed the camp border, she spotted the hunched figure of Amren, sitting cross-legged, surrounded by teetering stacks of ancient books. From where she stood, Fiona could not see her lips moving frantically, though she knew they would be - since Velaris, there had not been a day where Amren had slept, devoting all her energy to enforcing their wards and existing defences.

"Where is she?"

A slight, frail woman brought her back to the present, tugging on her sleeve with round, worried eyes.

Fiona smiled and set her ladle aside. "Where is who?"

"My niece," the woman rasped, her gaze dancing from left to right and up again. "I haven't seen her. I need to see my niece."

"What's her name?" Fiona asked, ignoring the suspicion crawling in her gut.

"Artrea," she croaked. "Artrea is her name. Please," she urged. "Please, will you find her?"

There was a sense of desperation that rimmed her eyes that made her want to shiver. But nonetheless, Fiona nodded. "Of course. I'll ask around camp - if she's not here, she may have been taken to one of the temples at Cesere, or Altan on the Western coast," she explained. The woman sat back on her knees, nodding like a bobbing doll. Her gaze wandered away from the girl, and though she could tell her mind was lost again, she reached to pat her shoulder anyway.